


In the Absence of a Breeze

by rosethomass (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Guardian Angels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/rosethomass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Castiel watches Sam grow up and occasionally visits him under different guises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Absence of a Breeze

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Sassy Secret Santa Exchange](sastielweek.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, for [Kat](dogsnames.tumblr.com). :)) Title and lyrics from 'Speed the Collapse' by Metric.

 

 

_We auction off our memories_

_In the absence of a breeze_

**8.**

**  
**

Sam was covered in mud. It was drying up on his skin, making it tight and unpleasant to stretch his limbs. It was sunk into his clothes, sticking his shirt to his stomach and his jeans to his thighs. It was matted in his hair, tangling it and making his scalp itch. He wanted to go back to the motel, take a shower, and fall asleep. It had been a long day of playing with the local kids and he was  _tired._

But Dean was in the middle of a baseball game with some of the bigger kids and when Sam had asked him if they could leave, Dean had called back to just ‘let me finish this game, Sammy, just a little longer.’ Sam had felt like stomping his feet and crying to Dean that he wanted to leave  _now,_ but he decided that Dean deserved to have some fun and finish his game, so he sulked off to a nearby park bench and started picking at the dried mud under his fingernails.

Sam’s eyelids felt heavy and thick. He pulled his legs up on the bench and tucked them to the side, leaning his head back against the wood of the bench, letting a yawn crawl its way out of his throat. Sam watched a couple of birds pecking at the ground a few feet away, picking at scraps and crumbs. Crows—their black feathers ruffling, their soft trills to each other sounding sweet to Sam’s ears.

Sam’s vision was going blurry, the crows shifting in and out of his focus as his head lolled forward, but he quickly shook himself back into consciousness. He continued watching the crows hopping idly around the grass as his sense of equilibrium failed him, not alerting him that he was falling to the side. Or maybe he did notice, but his brain was so tired that it didn’t really care.

There was the soft patter of raindrops landing on the sidewalk nearby, pricking lightly at his skin. Sam thought that maybe he should move, go somewhere with cover before it really started coming down and he got soaked, making the mud caked on his skin have to go through the whole uncomfortable process of drying all over again. But he was so  _sleepy_ and the bench was surprisingly comfortable. It was much softer than the mattress back at the motel, that was for sure.

He could survive a few minutes of sleeping in the rain.

The rain did in fact last only a few minutes, and by the time it was finished, Dean was calling to Sam from across the park.

Sam had been so out that it took a moment of Dean yelling his name, but when he startled awake he heard a kind of ruffling noise, like a paper flapping through the wind, or a bird taking off from the ground.

 He was fully expecting to be soaked to the skin, mud making him sticky and uncomfortable, but his clothes were still tacky with flakes of dirt and his skin was dry. The entire bench was dry, not a drop of water to be seen. When he looked out at the park, however, he could see the jungle gym sprinkled with glittering drops. The grass was green and lush, sparkling like it did after rainfall. When he turned his head to look at Dean, he saw that Dean  _was_ soaked to the skin, hair plastered to his face and looking like a drowned rat.

Sam looked again and saw that the group of crows had returned to the grass, pecking at what was probably worms and bugs in the loose earth displaced by the rain.

When Sam reached Dean, his brother frowned at him and asked him how come he was so dry if he had been sleeping on the park bench during the rain?

Sam figured that the crows had protected him from the rain, but Dean just scoffed and told him that was impossible. But Sam could swear that he had heard bird wings when he had woken up.

**12.**

It was getting dark and Dean Winchester was not back yet. Castiel hovered by the Winchester's motel room door, in the space between it and the next room's window. This way he could keep his awareness on Sam Winchester and his eyes—if a celestial wave of light and energy could have eyes, that is—on the men arguing in the next room.

As he watched and kept alert, Castiel couldn't help but think how much he envied his brothers and sisters. They had been assigned normal children to watch over. Children who had nothing to worry about past a scraped knee or a fall out of a tree. Castiel had vampires and werewolves and Shtrigas to keep away from his charges. He had child molesters and pimps and killers in the motel rooms John Winchester dragged these two to.

Castiel had full confidence that the older brother could look after himself (that didn't stop him from keeping an eye out, of course; he took his job very seriously), but Sam was more prone to trouble for some reason. Danger seemed drawn to him like a magnet and it made Castiel very frustrated.

Sam was currently sprawled on the armchair, legs dangling over the armrest and head tucked into a corner of the headrest, a book propped up on his thighs. His eyes were starting to droop and Castiel felt relieved that he would be able to get some rest after the training John had put him through the day before—not to mention Sam staying up late afterwards so he could study for a test.

As Sam's eyes slid shut and his lips parted slightly, Castiel turned his attention back to the men in the next room. They were loud, angry. There was a suitcase full of money on the bed and bags of white powder on the table. Castiel didn't know the finer details of humans and their social structure, but he understood that these men were dangerous, he could feel it in the pulsing of his grace, alerting him that his charge was at risk.

When two of the four men gathered pulled out pistols from under their clothes, Castiel was on instant alert. His wings extended and arched in defense and protection, even if they couldn't do anything in his current state. He hadn't felt that a vessel would be necessary, but now was starting to regret his decision.

One of the men was pointing his gun at the other two and—more importantly to Castiel—the wall dividing their room from Sam's. Castiel focused his energy, tugged at the current timeline, altered the waves of energy around them and bent the timeline so he could see. He could see a few minutes ahead of the present, when the man would fire his gun and the bullet would miss its target and pierce through the wall into the next room.

Castiel let the timeline loose and allowed himself back in the present.

He couldn't attack the men in the room—he wasn't allowed to harm or smite any humans without orders. He would just have to get Sam out of his room and the bullet's path.

Castiel's waves pulsed, energy focusing on its objective. He managed to focus on the correct waves to emit sound and altered them just slightly. He couldn't form his own words, that would take too much time and effort—but he could play a set of sound waves he had heard himself in his time watching over the Winchesters. He searched in his memories for Dean's voice, Dean's words, and finally settled on the ones he needed, copying the waves and emitting them loud enough for Sam to hear.

_"Sam! Get over here, I need your help with something."_

Castiel stopped and turned his attention to Sam, who was stirring awake, groggily looking around the room. He called his brother's name in question, brows furrowed. Castiel played the sound waves again and Sam's eyes turned to the door, where his brother's voice was seemingly coming from.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," Sam grumbled and hopped off the armchair, leaving his book open on the seat. As soon as he was out the door, three gunshots rang through the air, loud and sharp, and Sam yelped, dropping to the ground and pressing himself against a wall, pulling his knees up and tucking his head between them, wrapping his arms over his head. Castiel knew nothing would harm him now, but he extended a wing over the curled up boy anyways.

Two of the men—one of them the one that had fired the gun—came barreling out of the motel room, and Sam's head shot up with a gasp to look at them with wide eyes. They barely spared him a glance as they ran to their car and drove away.

A voice was calling Sam's name—this time not created by Castiel. Both boy and angel turned to see Dean running towards them, face pale and eyes wide. When he saw Sam—terrified but unharmed—his step faltered as his body was overwhelmed by relief. There was a lot of stammering and hugging and checking for wounds and explanations and then Sam asked Dean why he had called him. Dean insisted he hadn't, that he hadn't been anywhere near the motel room, but had heard the gunshots and come running. Sam was adamant that he had heard Dean calling his name, but they decided to not pursue or question it any further when they noticed the bullet hole in the corner of the armchair where Sam's head had been resting. Winchesters don't look gift horses in the mouth.

**15.**

There's a gentle  _clunk_  sound as the machine stops, and Sam looks over the edge of the seat. The ride's over and people are getting off. They're at the very top, so it'll take a while for them to get down. The air is chilly up here, nipping at his nose, turning his cheeks red. Sam glances to the side at the man sitting next to him. He chuckles self-consciously.

"Sorry you're stuck with me, man," he mutters, not meeting the guy's eye. He's tall and well-built and blonde, his hair cropped short. There's a tattoo on his forearm and Sam recognizes it as a Marine tattoo from the pictures his dad used to show him. There's a gold cross dangling from a chain around his neck. "I bet you were hoping for a pretty girl."

The Marine's brows furrow and his eyes—a pale, welcoming blue—turn to Sam, head slightly tilted in confusion. "Why would I want that?" His words come out stumbling, tongue tangling a bit, like he's not used to talking, like a bike wobbling because its rider hasn't ridden it in centuries.

Sam chuckles again, this time with amusement. "Ferris wheels are usually romantic, aren't they? Couples get on them to make out or something. I've seen it in movies."

The guy's eyes flit away to the sky, brow still furrowed, still confused. When he turns back to Sam and speaks, his speech is a little smoother, the bike gaining a little balance because it's not something the rider forgot how to do, no matter how long it's been. "Is that what you were expecting? When you came up here? A pretty girl?"

The metal bar in front of Sam is cold, his fingers flexing as he looks out. "Not really. I just wanted to see the view." It's beautiful. He can see every single ride the carnival has, every single booth, every port-a-potty, every trash can, every popcorn and cotton candy stand. He looks out to the city, all the lights caught on a dark backdrop, vague outlines of buildings and trees and mountains visible. "It's really awesome. My brother wouldn't come up with me. I think he's afraid of heights but won't admit it." He grins at the stranger, who hesitates before smiling back.

Sam looks over the edge again, down at the base of the machine. He sees Dean, a pale spot of light brown hair between dark, leather-clad shoulders. He's chatting with some girl. Sam hopes Dean won't ditch him again, like at Plucky's. There are clowns here too.

He turns back to the stranger, who is staring out at the night view like he's only now realizing it's there because Sam just pointed it out to him.

"You believe in angels, right?" Sam asks and the guy turns a questioning frown on him again. Sam points at his necklace, the cross. "You believe in God, so you believe in angels too, right?"

The guy touches the cross on his chest with curious fingers, as if he's just realizing it's there, like the view. "Yes," he answers. "I believe in angels."

Sam's face splits into a grin. "Cool. Me too. Can you believe they get to see this all the time? Whenever they want? They can see  _anything_ they want, whenever. I wish I could do that."

"They only see if they look," the Marine says, and it's Sam's turn to frown at him. "And sometimes they're so busy focusing on something else that they forget to look. Until someone points it out to them."

Sam doesn't reply to that and they sit and drink in the view together. He wants to introduce this guy to Dean, even if he hasn't even learned his name yet. When they get off the ride, Sam bounds over to Dean and turns him around so he can point out the weird Marine he was talking to, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Dean ruffled his hair and told him he was imagining things. Like when Dean calls his name when he's nowhere around and magic crows shield him from rain.

**22.**

His job is done for now, they tell him. There is no reason to be here now. And yet...

His new vessel is smaller, shorter, softer. Her hair is dark and down to her jaw, her lips pale and unassuming, her eyes are a stale green color and her nose is just a little too wide for her thin cheeks. The skirt she wears is too short and uncomfortable, but the blouse she's wearing is light and breezy. The shoes pinch her toes, though, and her makeup clumps black at the edge of his vision. Castiel hasn't worn vessels in centuries. This is the second time in a long time, and humans are so different. The soldier a few years ago fit a little more comfortably than this one, but it would have to do for now. It's not like Castiel is planning on making contact with Sam, just watch him. It was only for a few hours so he could make sure Sam didn't do anything crazy like drunkenly fall into a ditch or walk into traffic.

Sam had been coping well with Jessica Moore's death. If self-induced insomnia and repressed guilt trips could be considered 'coping'. Castiel had seen other humans completely fall apart under similar circumstances. Sam was at least holding it together—mostly due to, Castiel guessed, his brother's support and his own thirst for revenge.

But tonight Sam wasn't doing well. He's at the bar, sweating booze, hair hanging over his eyes as he glares down at the countertop and Castiel is sure he's trying to hold back tears. He's got one hand curled around the glass full of whiskey and another clenched so tight his knuckles are white.

Sam has been sitting here for three hours, drinking. He snuck out a while ago while Dean was asleep and has been getting progressively more inebriated, past the point of coherency. As Castiel watches, he finally stands up, fingers tripping as they look for money in his jacket pocket and toss it on the bar. He stumbles over the barstools, practically falls on his face, and crashes out the side exit. There's a feeling in Castiel's grace, energy pulsing with warning, the same energy that always told him the Winchesters were in danger and it was his job to protect them. He's attached to the Winchesters, and right now, Sam is going to hurt himself. Maybe not intentionally, and it's not Castiel's job to protect him anymore.

And yet...

That day at the carnival, at the top of the ferris wheel, Castiel realized that Sam Winchester is more than just his job. Sam Winchester is a human, a soul—one of the most vibrant and beautiful that Castiel has ever seen. Castiel can't just let Sam get hurt.

He—or rather, she—finds Sam dragging himself along the alley wall, trying to make it to the street without his legs giving away.

"Sam," she calls and her voice is soft, dulcet. Nothing like his true voice, terrifying and fierce. It's different, but it gets Sam's attention all the same.

"Do I know you?" Sam slurs, looking like he doesn't really care if this girl is a threat, if he knows her or not. Like he doesn't really care about anything at all anymore.

"I am a friend," Castiel says.

Sam raises an eyebrow, sways against the wall where he's leaning on his shoulder. He shrugs, doesn't recognize her, doesn't care. 

"You're hurt," Castiel states and Sam chuckles, dry and harsh.

 "'M fine. Just drunk."

"Not your body. Your soul. It’s in pain." Castiel wants so much to help him, make the longing in his own grace stop. The  _need_ to make sure Sam is okay, he's been doing it all of Sam's life, since Azazel marked Sam down as an interest. All of Azazel's children had been assigned an angel to watch over until it was decided which one they would use. Once Azazel had chosen Sam, made his interest clear by killing Jessica, Castiel's job had been finished. He no longer needed to protect the boy, had to let things run their own course. But that didn't mean he could stop, his instinct for two decades being  _protect Sam._  "Let me help you."

"How?" Sam mumbles, steps closer to her, so close Castiel can smell the booze on his jacket. Feel his pain radiating in waves. "How you gon' help me? You gon'a bring her back?"

How Castiel wishes he could. How he wishes he could bring Jessica back to Sam. Has been wanting to do it since she died a few months back. Just to stop Sam's suffering, make it stop hurting; and those are such dangerous things for an angel to want.

Sam relieves Castiel of having to deny him by stepping even closer, right in front of her, her eyes at level with his collarbone because he was so tall. Where was the little boy who thought crows kept him dry in the rain? The boy who rode a ferris wheel just to see the city at night? Was he still in there? Underneath all the bulk and muscle and lank, trapped in a pit of anger and grief and guilt?

The first thing Castiel feels from Sam is relief, a dulling of the sharp misery that had been radiating from him, so when he realizes that there are lips pressed against hers, Castiel is a little surprised. Sam is seeking comfort in physicality and it's working. The warmth he's finding in Castiel is helping him.

But then Sam pulls away, hangs his head, his face pinches in disgust, and Castiel realizes with dismay that it's directed at himself.

"Sorry," he mumbles, steps away, and Castiel reacts, grips his arm so he won't move away too far. “I don’t…I’m not…”

 "It's fine," she says. "If it helps."

There's a moment where Sam breathes, looks at her but doesn't meet her eyes. There's a moment where Castiel thinks Sam recognizes Castiel. Not the girl he's wearing, but the voice that called him so he wouldn't get shot, the soldier whose eyes he opened a million miles above the earth.

When Sam kisses her again, it's with purpose and force, with sobriety and clear mind. He wants to kiss her, wants to touch her, needs to be kissed and touched in return. He's so lonely.

Sam pushes her up against the wall, hands in her hair, kissing her deep and hungry, a leg slipping between hers and Castiel has never felt like this before. Has never felt this kind of yearning, this hunger that's blooming somewhere between her lower abdomen and her crotch. He doesn't know what the surge of heat in her chest is, what the tingling under her skin means. It's been centuries since he last took a vessel, and he's never done this before. He's known of brothers and sisters that took advantage and pleasure in human companions, but never attempted it himself.

 Oh, what he has been missing out on.

Sam is warm and firm and good and needy, Castiel all too willing to deliver, kissing back as best she can, pulling Sam's mouth against her own, hands squeezing his arms and feeling his muscles bunch as he holds her tighter.

Castiel feels Sam's misery clouding his relief before Sam pulls away, rests his head on her shoulder as his own shake under her fingers.

"'M sorry," he mumbles, voice trembling. "I can't." His voice breaks.

His knees give out and Castiel catches him before he hits the ground. She slides down the wall until she's sitting on the cold floor and Sam is in her arms, between her legs, her short skirt bunching up uncomfortably but Castiel doesn't care. Sam's back is against her chest, sobbing into her shoulder, and Castiel comforts him the way he's seen humans do.

Castiel strokes Sam's hair, tells him it's going to be okay, it's going to get better, and all those other lies humans say to each other when one is in pain.

Sam falls asleep and the nightmares start crawling in before Castiel touches her fingers to his forehead and wipes them away along with the terrible inebriation.

He indulges, allows himself to stay for a minute, holding this beautiful broken boy for a moment before he zaps them both away, Sam still asleep, and deposits him in his bed. Dean is sound asleep in the next bed, oblivious.

Castiel considers wiping Sam's memory of this encounter, but Sam has a funny way of remembering Castiel anyways.

Castiel really shouldn't be getting so attached, not when he knows what the future holds for Sam.

And yet...

**24.**

There's an angel, an actual angel in his and Dean's motel room. There's actually two, but that Uriel dick doesn't matter.

This one is named Castiel. This one brought his brother back to him. This is the one that matters.

His voice is rough, his positioning awkward, standing too straight to be comfortable, eyes too sharp on him. It makes Sam feel uneasy, exposed, but there's something in the back of his mind that resembles déjà vu.

He's never met an angel before, but there's something about the way Sam's name curls on Castiel's tongue, the way that Castiel cradles Sam's hand in both of his as if he enjoyed the contact, the way Castiel's eyes follow the lines of Sam's face like a familiar path, that makes Sam feel like this angel knows him.

There's a way that Castiel's skin sparks against his, a way that Castiel tilts his head, looks puzzled, listens to them as if every word were vital, that makes Sam feel like he knows this angel.

That's not possible and Sam knows it.

There's an angel, an actual angel in his and Dean's motel room. He's not what Sam was expecting. Sam can't deny he's disappointed.

**29.**

Sam Winchester is not the boy Castiel remembers. Castiel isn't sure if that's a good thing or not. He guesses that he should be grateful that Sam still _is_ at all. In the past four years that they've known each other—or, at least, that Sam has known Castiel—three have been so many instances, so many close calls where Castiel couldn't do anything, couldn't help, and Sam had almost died before his eyes. Managed it a few times, actually.

Thinking of Cold Oak still sends a shiver of anguish through his grace, makes his wings feel heavy with desperation. 

He remembers watching the scene from afar, from up in Heaven, unable to fly down and help, stop Sam from being killed like all the times before, like his grace ached to do ever since he was assigned the Winchesters.

But Michael had practically pinned him down by the wings, told him everything was happening as it was meant to.

It was an almost physical pain, pulsing waves of anguish crashing through him when the knife was plunged into Sam's back, when it severed his spine. If Castiel had had teeth, they would have grated with the vibrations of Dean crying out his brother's name, loud enough to echo through the heavens so all the angels could hear.

Of course, it had all been part of the plan and both Heaven and Hell knew that Sam Winchester would not remain dead for long. He was important, he was needed.

 And still, thinking of Cold Oak is not something Castiel finds easy to do.

After that, Castiel went down into the fiery pits of Hell to retrieve Dean Winchester because even though his charge was officially Sam, Dean was also his charge by extension. Once Dean was saved, marked by Castiel's grace, he became Castiel's charge officially as well. But Castiel couldn't deny that his interest was always focused primarily on Sam, for some reason he couldn't fathom.

In the four years of working with the Winchesters, Castiel had watched Sam evade death's fingers by just a hair's breadth, sometimes stepping in to—as the boys so crudely put it—‘save their asses'.

Castiel—or Cas now, as the boys have dubbed him—has watched Sam evolve, just like he had watched species climb up the evolutionary ladder, watched them develop gills and fins, watched them replace those gills and fins for scales and beaks, watched them all change for the better, adapt and survive. Except Sam wasn't as graceful as those species.

Sam climbed a few rungs up the ladder, stumbled and slipped back down a few, hung on by his teeth, tried to keep himself from falling, climbed a few more rungs, fell anyways, crashed on the ground and lay there, curled up and licking his wounds, glaring at the ladder as if he wanted to set it on fire and watch it reduce to ashes.

Castiel isn't sure why he's surprised when Sam gets up and starts climbing again every time he falls, because he always does.

It's in his nature to. It's just another wonder of God's—human resilience. Sam Winchester embodies that in body and soul, and Castiel is fascinated by it, so attracted to it.

Castiel has watched Sam go through horrible addictions and detoxes, fighting demons and Horsemen, lose friends and family, allow himself to be overtaken by Lucifer himself. He wasn't around to see Sam overpower Lucifer, but can imagine it. Can imagine Sam's soul—beautiful, and bright and gorgeous and strong—fighting against Lucifer's influence to save his brother, push it down long enough to make the ultimate sacrifice, to give everything and then some. Castiel isn't sure that he would have made the same decision had he been in that position, had he been human and the fate of humankind rested solely on his shoulders. He isn't sure any of his brothers or sisters would have.

And isn't that funny? That a human is more righteous and faithful than any Angel of the Lord could ever be?

Sam Winchester is surprising like that.

Castiel has watched as Sam's body walked around, talking and hunting, pretending he was the boy Castiel loved. (What's the point in denying to himself that he loves Sam? Especially when Sam is the one who taught him how to do that in the first place.)

Castiel has watched Sam's gnarled, broken, shredded—and yet, still so beautiful; how was it still so lovely?—soul shoved back into his body. Watched Sam struggle to remember his lost year. Watched the wall slowly crumble.

Castiel has watched himself shatter that wall, cause Sam the worst pain imaginable, and it's just like Cold Oak where every time Castiel thinks about it, a searing pain pulses through his grace. Only it's a million times worse because this time Castiel is the one who hurt Sam, the one who broke him, unapologetically and without hesitation and he wonders how he could ever have sunk that low.

Castiel has watched himself spiral out of control and plummet to rock bottom where there is no coming back from, no forgiveness.

Castiel has watched Sam Winchester forgive him and pull him back up.

Castiel has seen the fallout of the worst mistake he ever made, tried to make it better, and then watched Sam try to help _him._ Just when Castiel thought Sam couldn't be anymore...well... _Sam._

And now...

 Now he's just watching Sam. Studying him, learning from him, taking note of his words when directed to a victim—soothing, articulate, curious, helpful—and when directed to another authority figure with information—authoritative, respectful, as if he belongs there—and when directed to a suspect—coaxing, firm, demanding.

Castiel watches and tries to emulate, wants to be a hunter like the Winchesters, wants to please them and help them. He watches Sam and wants.

He wishes he could tell Sam, tell him everything. Tell him about the crows, the bullet, the ferris wheel, the bar. Wants to tell him he's there, always has been, that he loves Sam so intensely that it frightens him. 

But he doesn't think Sam would react well to that. Doesn't think the Winchesters would appreciate learning that Castiel has known them even before he raised Dean from perdition. Doesn't think they would appreciate knowing Castiel was lying to them yet again, has been all this time.

 So he keeps quiet, admires from a distance, and wants.

But just a few words can make everything come crashing down around his ears and Castiel knows that, knows that better than anyone. A simple, innocuous statement can ruin everything, can shatter the fabrication he's built up.

_It is a little absurd, though. Superman going Dark Side._

So he's helping the boys with a case, going over clues. He's talking to Dean, Sam just a few feet away, right within touching distance. Dean's going through the victims' files, trying to find the connection between them while Sam does research on the nature of the killings.

It takes Castiel just a glance at the map that marks where the victims were all killed. They're all within ten miles of an abandoned office building, right in the center of the marked locations.

"Ha!" Dean laughs when Castiel mentions it to him. "Thanks, Cas. Damn, how'd I miss that?"

"People tend to not see things if they're not looking," _It is a little absurd, though,_ "until someone points it out to them." _Superman going Dark Side._

Just like the first time, Castiel doesn't notice his slip. But it takes one look at Sam's face, looking at him as if he's seeing Castiel for the first time, that Castiel realizes that Sam knows, and it's all over.

Sam doesn't say anything though, and Castiel pretends nothing's changed.

**29.**

There's a nice breeze up here, gently ruffling Sam's hair and making him tighten his jacket around him. The motel is tall, taller than they're used to. Five stories high. They're in Nebraska, one of the flattest states in the country. He can see the city for miles, the night sky dark and the city lit up like a Christmas tree.

There's a sound, like a paper flapping in the wind, except softer, more delicate and graceful. Like feathers cutting through the air. Like crows taking off in a half-remembered dream.

Sam doesn't need to take his eyes off the sight to know Castiel has appeared on the rooftop behind him.

"Sam," he says, and just that syllable sounds like an opening to a speech, a question, and an apology all at the same time. "Why are you up here?"

 "Just wanted to see the view," Sam replies, still doesn't turn around. "It's pretty awesome, isn't it? Though not nearly as awesome as the view from the top of, say, a ferris wheel or something." He turns around now, and the corner of his mouth is turned up in a grin. "Don't you think?"

Castiel's face crumples. Sam hasn't seen him this upset in a long time. Since before Purgatory and before broken walls, in the center of a demon's spotless hideout, the red glow of holy fire lighting up his expression to highlight just how miserable he felt. Sam doesn't like it one bit.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know I should have told you and Dean-"

"So it  _was_ you? The soldier at the carnival?" Sam cuts in. Castiel looks up, brows slightly pinched as if he's wondering why he isn't being disowned and cast off as the worst being in existence. He nods slightly and Sam lets out a low, relieved laugh. "Good. Dean kept insisting I was crazy, and I believed him for a while. Good to know you were real. Now I can shove it in his face."

Castiel is still frowning and Sam understands that he was concerned anymore lying would make them never trust him again, but Sam understands why he would keep this to himself. It was years ago, before Sam and Dean even knew Castiel, or any angels for that matter. There was no point in bringing it up now. Unless...

"Cas, what were you doing? Why were you up there?" 

Maybe the reason Castiel was there was what worried Castiel—maybe he had been there to add to silently add to the angels' manipulation of their lives, and Sam and Dean never realized it went back that far.

"The machine was damaged," Castiel said. "They never mentioned it, because they managed to fix it before it collapsed and killed a lot of people, you included. I was holding it together to give them time."

Sam stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You...were _saving_ me?"

"We were up there quite a long time," Castiel said instead of answering. "It was curious you hadn't noticed how long it took us to get back down."

"I was kinda distracted by the weird Marine sitting next to me," Sam teased and he was relieved to see the furrow in Cas' brow relax, his lips ease from their tight line.

"You're not upset?" Castiel asked.

Sam laughed. "You're kidding, right? You saved my life, and a bunch of other lives too, apparently. Can't be pissed at you for that." He jerked his head at Cas, nodded at the ledge he was sitting on, inviting Cas to sit with him before he turned to face the city again.

Sitting down with his back to the view, Castiel said, "It was my job. I was ordered to be there."

"That so?" Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Was Dean supposed to die in that crash too? He was right under the thing."

Castiel frowned again, this time in confusion and not upset. "Dean was supposed to be injured, but he survived. You were the one I was saving. Why would you ask that?"

Sam shrugged, couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. "You're always saving Dean. At least, before. Dean's always been your job."

"Dean has been officially my charge since I raised him from Hell," Castiel explained. "Before that, he was my charge by extension. Simply because his fate was practically intertwined with my actual charge's—yours."

"What?" Sam whirled on him. " _Me_?"

"You were a child of Azazel. Every child was assigned an angel to ensure they survived long enough to reach the age of Azazel's test. You were mine."

"No. _You_ were _my_ angel," Sam corrects him, face splitting in a smile. He turns away, shaking his head with a slight laugh. "So you've been watching over me my whole life? My own guardian angel?"

Castiel smiles softly and speaks to the roof of the motel. "Yes." He explains that birds did not save him from contracting pneumonia as a kid, that Dean did not save him from a stray bullet, and that a random girl at a bar did not save him from drunkenly tripping while crossing the street and getting himself run over.

At the last one, Sam blushes a violent shade of red that disappears into his shirt. "That girl...that was _you?_ " He runs a hand over his face. "Oh God, I didn't wake up with a hangover or anything...I'd convinced myself that it was just a dream and I hadn't practically sexually assaulted some girl...turns out I sexually assaulted my own guardian angel. Smooth, Sam."

"You did not assault me," Castiel assures him. "I wasn't supposed to be there at all. Once Azazel had Jessica Moore killed, he marked you as the chosen one, the one he wanted. Our job was done. I was under orders to stay in Heaven and wait until Dean went to Hell to save him, to not interfere any more. But after so long of protecting you, I could not ignore the urge to do so again. You did not do anything I disagreed with."

If it were possible, Sam's face turned even more red. "You _wanted_ me to...kiss you? And...y'know...?"

"You were very distressed. Physical connection was easing your misery." Castiel attempts a reassuring smile. "I was very happy to help you."

Sam snorts and covers his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking slightly in silent laughter. "Gee, Cas. I really appreciate the willingness to pity fuck me."

He's not sure Castiel fully understands the term or why Sam finds it so amusing, but he doesn't ask and Sam is a little too distracted by his thoughts to explain it to him anyways.

"I can't believe all this time," Sam starts, more to himself than Cas, "you were actually _my_ angel...not Dean's. I could've sworn..."

"But I am also Dean's angel," Castiel says, confused again. "You are both my charges, I am both of—“

"No," Sam interrupts, crowding Castiel in close now. "Dean may be your charge too, but..." His eyes flash down to Castiel's lips, his resolve weakening under the angel's perpetual frown. "...I've wanted you to be mine for a long time...so...you know what? You are. You are _mine._ "

Maybe sexually assaulting an angel once is forgivable, but doing it twice might go on Sam's permanent record. Good thing Sam stopped caring about his permanent record a long time ago.

Kissing Castiel is all the proof he needs that no, Castiel isn't lying, and yes, Castiel really did all those things he claimed. He really was that girl at the bar, and even though the mouths are different, he kisses the same. Like he wants to give everything to Sam; like he wants to take every horrible thing Sam has inside him and replace with whatever good he has, anything, everything he can give. 

It's the third time Castiel has done that and Sam thinks it's about time he started giving him something in return.

When Sam pulls away, anxiety hits him like a knife to stomach because he has no idea if Castiel is okay with this. Sure, he kissed Sam back, but he just said he's very happy to help Sam with things like that, has done it before.

"Well," Castiel breathed, looking away as if assessing the situation and Sam's nervousness mounts, the night air doing nothing to cool his heated skin. "Yours, am I?" He looks up, smiling, and relief hits Sam so hard he almost topples off the side of the building. Of course, Castiel would probably just catch him.

"Thank you for pointing that out to me," Cas grins and Sam laughs, fists his hands in the trenchcoat.

"It was pretty obvious." He leans in so their noses are almost touching. "You just weren't looking." 


End file.
